Someone's In My Head (WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2015)

Chapter Eight

"I don't think this is a very good idea." Phil was saying.

I, on the other hand, was sitting behind the wheel of Hector's yellow Ferrari. Hector, who turned out to be a rich man-I had no idea how-had readily agreed to lend me his car after Phil told him that we're after the ones who are responsible for Phil's apparent 'death'.

"I do have a license, if that's what you're worried about." I shrugged.

"Well, as far as I know, the last time you drove you ended up in a ravine."

I groaned. "And you choose now to give me a recap. That wasn't even entirely my fault. I was fighting dizziness and all of a sudden this Optimus Prime just appeared out of nowhere-"

"Oh, shut up and drive already." Phil snorted.

We were headed to the facility. Or at least, where we hoped the facility was. The place was three hundred miles away, so driving a superfast car seemed like a good idea. I figured that Dr. Gordon must've lied about driving me there, or maybe the bad guys had a branch facility, because 300 miles didn't seem like the distance a brain-dead patient could travel before he died of oxygen deprivation.

As I revved the engine, I was secretly grateful that I didn't have any post-trauma fear of driving alone. The so-called PTSD? Pah. There wasn't even a tiny bout of worry as I wrapped my hands around the wheel. Dr. Gordon must be a fake. Oh, well, he is a fake.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked Phil. "Please do tell me you have a plan."

"Of course. We drive for three hundred miles, straight west." Phil replied simply. "Oh, no. You drive."

I rolled my eyes. "Brilliant. Let's go."

Fortunately, the drive was uneventful enough, if you could ignore Phil's periodic reminder of the tiniest flaws in my driving etiquette. Within a short while, we were cruising smoothly along the highway, heading west.

"I suppose you understand that there's quite a bounty on your head the minute after you killed that doctor," Phil said when I told him we were taking the westward highway.

"I did NOT kill Doctor Gordon," I replied, exasperated.

Phil ignored my evidently valid protest. "So you are clear that there might be roadblocks around to get your ass."

"Yeah, but I doubt there could be any roadblocks along a freaking highway." I was starting to get pissed off.

Phil chuckled bitterly. "Oh boy, I don't think you know what the government is capable of."

I dutifully turned up the volume of the stereo to bury Phil's pessimism.

Two hours later, I pulled up in an R&R station. Although I had been traveling at an average speed of 100 miles an hour (much to Phil's disapproval), I was still an hour away from my destination. And my bladder was close to exploding.

The moment I got out of the car, I knew something was wrong. But I couldn't quite place it, so I reluctantly swept it away and headed towards the loo.

Phil, being a constant presence in my head, naturally detected my unease. "What is it?" he asked.

"Not sure. Just a feeling." I had just finished the words when I rounded the bend that led to the toilet. And froze.

Two uniformed policemen were distributing sheets of paper while occasionally exchanging a word or two with the crowd ahead. At first I thought it was an awareness program of sorts, but when I glimpsed the photo on the papers they were distributing, I realized I was in trouble. Big trouble.